


(I’ll Do Whatever It Takes To Be) The Mistake You Can’t Live Without

by J2love (kinksock22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sam, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinksock22/pseuds/J2love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Dean's doing - what he's been doing, hiding his secrets and feelings in cheap booze and cheaper women - isn't working anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I’ll Do Whatever It Takes To Be) The Mistake You Can’t Live Without

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back on 6/23/13 and posted it to sinful-desire.org under J2love. It's rough and I'm sorry if it sucks. I just wanted everything to be compiled in one place. *hides*

The body squirming beneath him draws Dean’s attention from the lump on the other bed. He looks down at her, wondering – not for the first time – what the hell he’s doing. This isn’t the first time he’s done this; hell not even the first time  _today_. But it’s getting harder and harder to remember why.  
  
She’s writhing beneath him, moaning even though he’s not really even doing anything, her big hazel eyes glinting in the bluish moonlight spilling in from the part in the curtain.   
  
“Shh,” he whispers, even though he doesn’t need her to be quiet. Sam’s not asleep, he’s not that good at faking it and Dean taught the kid everything he knows, even that little trick.   
  
She reaches down between them, grabbing his cock – only half-hard at best; combination of alcohol, disinterest, and guilt fucking with his stamina. Sam’s in the other bed, three feet away, huddled under the blanket, thin material pulled all the way over his head. Dean can see his shoulders shaking.  
  
It makes Dean want to puke.  
  
Today’s Sam’s fifteen birthday.  
  
Dean knows he’s a fuck-up. Always has been. The only thing he ever did right was raising Sammy. His sweet, geeky, amazing, perfect little brother. He’s so smart and better than this life, better than Dean. And all Dean’s ever wanted was for Sam to be happy.  
  
The girl makes a noise in the back of her throat – disgust or impatience or whatever, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t care. She’s a few years older than him, staying three rooms down from them, and it was easy as fuck to get her into their room, even easier to get her into his bed. But the easy lay that he thought he wanted – needed – just isn’t cutting it. Hasn’t been for a long time if he feels like being honest with himself. Which he usually doesn’t. It was the same with the pretty waitress from the diner earlier. She writhed on his dick like a porn star and he’d barely gotten off.   
  
Something has to give.  
  
He pulls away from the chick and flops down onto the mattress, his still mostly uninterested cock hanging out of the open fly of his jeans. “Wha-?” she starts but he cuts her off.  
  
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls. “’s not gonna happen.”  
  
She huffs and straightens her skirt, pushing herself off the mattress, shooting him a dirty look. If she only knew the real reason she – and mostly every other girl lately – wasn’t doing it for him, she’d do more than just give him a dirty look.  
  
Once she’s gone, Dean pushes himself off the mattress as well and takes a shower, needing to get the smell of perfume and pussy off him. When he’s done, he crawls into bed behind Sam, pulling his little brother against his chest. Sam huffs out a half-sigh, half-whimper, and Dean buries his face in the back of Sam’s head, silky-soft hair tickling his face, as he inhales that sweet Sammy scent. “Dean?” Sam whispers, obviously confused. Dean hasn’t crawled into his bed since he was thirteen.  
  
“Shh, Sammy,” Dean slurs.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Sam sighs, more of an observation than anything else.  
  
“’m sorry, baby boy,” Dean chokes out, wrapping himself tighter around his brother.  
  
Sam sighs again, and rubs Dean’s arm where it’s probably crushing his stomach. “’s okay,” Sam reassures him.  
  
“No,” Dean argues. “’s not. Nothin’s okay.”  
  
“Sleep it off, Dean. We’ll talk in the mornin’ if you remember this.”   
  
With another soft sigh, Sam settles into the mattress, into Dean’s arms, and Dean’s cock springs to life, so hard it’s painful and leaves him gasping.   
  
Yeah, Dean knows he’s a fuck-up.  
  
He wants his own brother.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
It started when Sam went from a chubby twelve-year-old to a lean, lithe thirteen-year-old, seemingly overnight. Where he’d once been rounded cheeks and big hazel eyes and floppy hair, a little too short still for his age, he shot up what seemed like at least a foot before Dean could blink, started training harder, quickly shedding the baby-fat and gaining beautiful, whip-cord muscle. His face became harder angles and while his hair was still floppy, it only added to the whole picture. Still had those same damn eyes though. Those same too-intelligent-for-his-age hazel depths that could look down into Dean’s soul, look through Dean, and leave him shaking.   
  
In his confusion, Dean went out and fucked a few guys, trying to see if it was just a matter of being able to enjoy beauty, no matter what gender. And while it wasn’t horrible – sex is sex, and he was getting off, so it wasn’t the worst thing in the world – those other guys just never  _did_  it for him. Not the way his suddenly beautiful, walking wet-dream of a brother did.  
  
He and Sammy had always been too close, too wrapped up in each other. In Dean’s mind, in his quiet moments, he blames Dad. It was like conditioning, like training every other part of himself.  _Take care of Sammy. You watch your little brother, boy. You can’t depend on anyone but each other. Family always comes first, Dean. Take your little brother outside as fast as you can, now, Dean. Go_. Dad placed baby Sammy in his arms, charged him with his care, and never took it back. Sam became  _Dean’s_ that cold November night in Lawrence while their whole world burned in the background.   
  
_He_  raised Sam; bathed and fed and taught him to walk and talk and to read, took him to school and beat the hell out of anyone that dared to look twice at his perfect little brother.   
  
Sam was his whole fucking  _world_. And Dean was okay with that.   
  
But when he was seventeen and horny all the Goddamn time and Sam was like a walking, talking felony, he realized just how far this had gone. He’d gone from being his brother’s protector, his big Goddamn hero, to someone that Sam needed protection  _from_. He spent his life up until that point fighting to keep Sam pure and innocent only to want to take those very things from him. He wanted to dirty Sam up, make him filthy with the want and need coursing through his veins.   
  
But Sammy is better than him. Always has been and always will be. He won’t fall down the same rabbit hole Dean did. Because Sam doesn’t need Dean the way that he needs Sam. He’s not Sam’s everything. Sam wants more out of life; more than Dean can give him.   
  
He never thought anything could make him so happy yet so fucking miserable at the same damn time.   
  
Whatever sickness is in Dean, he at least did right by Sam. His precious baby brother doesn’t have the same darkness in him. And when all Dean’s sins take him to Hell, at least he can know he did one thing right.   
  
~~~~~~  
  
He groans when he wakes up. His mouth tastes like something died in there and he’s got his human-furnace of a little brother spread across his chest, all long arms and legs, wrapped around him like a damn spider monkey. Which would be fine except he’s got to piss like it’s his job right now and it’s hot as balls in the room and Sam’s morning wood is dangerously close to his own.   
  
Nothing good can come from any of this.  
  
Maneuvering out from under Sam takes skill and Dean’s hung over as fuck – possibly still a little drunk – and Sam’s a clingy little fucker when he wants to be. Which, apparently, this morning he feels like being. Sam whines in the back of his throat, flailing one large paw toward Dean’s face, those long fingers damn-near taking out an eye. “D’n,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “C’mon… sleepin’.” He sounds all of five years old again and it makes Dean’s heart hurt. His little brother has grown up so fucking quickly.   
  
He’s going to lose Sam soon.   
  
“Gotta piss, Sammy,” Dean rasps.   
  
“C’mon, D…” That’s all the further Sam gets before he’s snoring softly again, his lips parted a bit, his messy hair fanned out over Dean’s chest.  
  
Fuck. Dean really hates his fucking life sometimes.  
  
He used to love the fact that Sam would curl up against his side like Dean was his own personal shield from the rest of the world. But because he’s a sick fucking fuck, he can’t even give his brother this anymore, can’t have Sam curled up against him like this without thinking of that smooth baby-soft skin and that wide, candy-pink mouth. His cock jerks and Dean groans, his eyes squeezing closed.   
  
Sam makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat – half-moan, half-whimper, half-whine – and his hips twitch forward, rubbing his stiff length against Dean’s thigh. It must feel good, and Sam must not realize where he is and who he’s humping against, because his little brother does it again, the long, blood-thick length twitching against Dean again and his own cock jerks again in response.   
  
Sam slides his hand down Dean’s side, his long, almost-elegant fingers curling over the cut of Dean’s hip and snuggles closer, grinding his hips forward, obviously looking for some friction on what feels like a painful case of morning wood.   
  
And because Dean’s life isn’t fucked up enough – because  _Dean_  isn’t fucked up enough – and already heading to Hell with a first-class ticket, Sam nuzzles under his jaw, his breath warm and moist when he moans – soft and breathy – “Dean…”  
  
Dean has never came untouched – or without at least a  _little_  friction – in his entire life but it’s a damn-near thing at the moment. He’s harder than he ever remembers being, his cock aching and leaking like a busted faucet and with the way Sam’s plastered to his side, fucking  _humping_  his thigh and hip, there’s no way for Dean to get some relief short of either shoving his hand down his shorts or rolling Sam onto his back and rutting into him like an animal.   
  
Sam’s fifteen – more than likely still a virgin – so therefore he has the stamina of a fifteen-year-old virgin. He comes within moments, another breathy moan of Dean’s name, and Dean’s hip is wet with his little brother’s release.   
  
Dean’s own cock jerks violently and he can’t stop himself – doesn’t even really try at this point, Sam was freaking humping him like a damn dog in his sleep – barely gets a hand on the front of his boxer briefs and just the barest amount of pressure has him coming like he hasn’t since he first found out what his dick was for.   
  
Sam smacks his lips adorably, snuffling and murmuring something against Dean’s neck, and Dean can tell he’s still sound asleep.  
  
Dean’s ticket to Hell just got bumped up to the express train.  
  
Sam shifts enough so that Dean can finally – fucking finally – get up off the mattress. He heads straight into the bathroom to piss, shave and shower. It doesn’t take long and when he’s done and walks out into the main room, Sam’s sitting up in the bed, thin sheet pooled around his hips, his hair sleep-mused and his nose wrinkled.   
  
Dean can’t look away.   
  
Sam licks his lips and looks up at Dean, opens his mouth like he wants to say something, shakes his head and looks away again. “’mma take a shower,” Sam whispers. When he stands up, Dean can see the mostly-dry wet spot on the front of his boxer briefs and his cock twitches, his breath hitching in his chest.  
  
Fuck. He really needs to get a handle on his shit, right the fuck now.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Even though she’s shorter, she could be the girl version of Sam – shiny, silky-soft chestnut hair that’s a little wavy, a little wild, and hazel eyes that sparkle and dance when she laughs, and dimples framing her almost-wide-enough lips. She’s lean and leggy but with curves in all the right places.   
  
He can’t take what he wants but he can take what he can get.  
  
Dean sees her in the diner, Sam sitting right across from him, that ever-present, petulant scowl on his face but hurt and confusion in his eyes that Dean doesn’t really understand.   
  
She gives Dean a wink and casually tilts her head toward the back, the restrooms, and he pushes out of his seat, ignoring the way Sam’s face falls even more and the dark look that flickers across his features. The diner is attached to the motel and Dean hands Sam the key to their room and gives strict instructions to get back there and don’t leave under any circumstances. Sam’s shoulders slump but he does what he’s told – never once arguing with Dean like he does with Dad. Dean stands outside and watches, makes sure Sam gets inside alright and goes off to find her.   
  
She pulls him into the unisex bathroom and locks the door, her bottom lip between her teeth. Dean grabs her hips and lifts her onto the sink, pushing her little skirt over the curve of her ass. Her name is Christy and she’s enthusiastic, moaning and writhing as Dean fingers her, his lips attached to her neck and she cries out, her back arching when he sinks his cock into her; long, lean legs wrapping around his waist. She’s warm and tight and her nails dig into his back when he makes her come but she keeps rolling her hips, riding his cock like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do and he finally gives in, letting go and coming into the condom before gently pulling away and setting her back down on her feet. She kisses him, wet and sloppy, and he leaves without a backwards glance. He never even told her his name.  
  
Dean’s gone for an hour at the most but the sight that greets him when he gets back to the room seems like it should’ve taken a lot longer to happen.   
  
Sam’s sprawled across the bed, half-dressed, cradling a half-bottle of Jim Beam. He’s drunk off his ass, swaying even though he’s sitting still, and there are tears running down his cheeks and his breath hitching in hiccoughing sobs.  
  
Dean’s heart stops.  
  
Sam’s glassy, unfocused hazel eyes flutter up to his and he makes a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat and his face crumples even more. “Dean,” he whimpers, curling into himself, the bottle of whiskey tipping dangerously.  
  
Somehow, Dean’s big brother instincts kick in and he’s across the room before he even realizes that he’s moving. He kneels on the bed in front of Sam, pawing at his arms, chest, stomach, back, anywhere he can reach, looking for injury, needing to know what hurt Sam, why he’s crying like this and drinking enough to try and rival Dean.  
  
“Sammy,” he grits out when Sam tries to squirm away from him, batting clumsily, uselessly, at his hands. “Stop it, I need to know where you’re hurt, what’s wrong.”  
  
“’m n-not hurt, Dean,” Sam mutters, shaking his head so quickly that he tips sideways.   
  
Dean somehow catches him before he falls, prying the bottle from his fingers and sets it aside. “Talk to me,” he commands. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what ‘m fixin’.”  
  
Sam snorts and glares at Dean, his dewy, sensitive eyes still swimming with tears but cold, so damn cold, and Dean’s never seen his little brother look at him like that. “You can’t,” he rasps, fresh tears streaking down his splotchy cheeks, swiping the back of his hand under his nose.   
  
“Like hell I can’t,” Dean growls.   
  
“’s me,” Sam slurs.  
  
“What’s you?”  
  
“What’s wrong, broken… What needs’ta be fixed but you  _can’t_.”  
  
Dean licks his lips, rubs one hand down his face, and tries to get a handle on his emotions. He’s having a hard enough time lately understanding his brother and his tumultuous moods, adding half a bottle of whiskey to the mix doesn’t help a damn bit. Sam’s still rocking back and forth, his arms around his stomach, his head hanging down so that his hair is hiding his eyes and he’s mumbling something, so low that Dean can’t hear him, even being this close.  
  
He leans in closer, his ear almost touching Sam’s lips, hears his brother’s soft, miserable voice slurring, “Wrong. Dirty. Bad. Can’t… want so much,” over and over.   
  
Dean frowns and grabs the sides of Sam’s face, forcing his brother’s head up. Sam doesn’t fight it, but also doesn’t raise his eyes, resolutely staring at the bedspread between them. “Sam,” he barks out, puts enough inflection in it to sound like Dad and Sam flinches. Dean sighs and shakes his head, plopping his ass down on the mattress near Sam’s hip. He pushes the hair back off Sam’s forehead, dips down until he can see Sam’s eyes. “C’mon, baby boy,” he urges, softer, nowhere near any tone Dad uses. “Ya gotta talk to me, Sammy.”  
  
“No,” Sam argues petulantly, his eyes swimming again with tears, his bottom lip and chin trembling. “Dean, I  _can’t_. You… You’ll hate me.”  
  
Dean’s not much of a hugger. Never has been, probably never will be. Dad didn’t raise them that way. But he still finds himself pulling Sam into his arms, one hand tangled in his sweat-damp hair, the other smoothing down his back. Sam’s face is tucked under his chin and he can feel the tension practically vibrating from his little brother’s frame. “Shh,” he whispers, turns his head to press a kiss to the top of Sam’s head, like he’d do when Sam was little and had a nightmare. “’s okay, Sammy. ‘m here, I got’cha. Ain’t nothin’ you could do or say to make me hate you. I promise, baby boy.”  
  
What Dean thought were soothing, reassuring words only seem to make Sam cry harder, his shoulders shaking and his breath hitching. “Aw, c’mon, Sammy. Please don’t cry, kiddo.” He stops, inhales deeply, catches a whiff of that sweet Sammy smell but it’s interlaced with sweat and whiskey. Dean hates it. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do to help you here, Sam. You gotta tell me what’s wrong, what you need, okay? Gotta help me out here, little brother. So I can fix it.”  
  
Sam sniffles pathetically and pulls away, wiping at his eyes and nose again. Sam’s a messy crier, always has been, but he’s still Dean’s little brother, still unfairly beautiful and perfect in Dean’s eyes. Sam doesn’t say anything for a long time, just quietly studies his face in that way that he does – too serious and intent and calculating for someone his age – and just when Dean thinks he’s not going to get anything out of Sam, his brother leans forward and presses a sloppy, off-center kiss to his lips.  
  
Dean is stone-cold sober. So that means that this isn’t a dream or some drunken, late-night hallucination. Sam is  _really_  kissing him.   
  
Until his dying day, Dean will deny the startled, wounded sound that gets caught in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut, as it takes longer than it really should for his brain to catch up to the fact that this is wrong. Sam shouldn’t be kissing him. Especially when the kid’s so damn drunk he can’t even hold his balance sitting still.   
  
Dean pulls away with a gasp, his lips still tingling even though it wasn’t much of a kiss. Sam’s eyes are wide, miserable, but there’s a fire, a determination behind the sadness in those hazel depths. “See?” Sam asks, tone soft yet strong, every bit the contrast that Sam himself is.   
  
“I don’t… Doesn’t mean anything,” Dean dismisses, belatedly realizing that he’s still cradling Sam’s face in his hands. But he just can’t talk himself into letting go.   
  
Sam huffs a sigh – all petulant little brother and Dean refuses to admit it’s freaking adorable – and rolls his eyes, shaking his head as best he can with Dean’s hands still on his cheeks. “Means everything,” Sam counters.  
  
“You’re drunk. And confused.”  
  
“I’m fifteen not five.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, finally gaining strength over his hands again, and drops them into his own lap. “Sammy,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I know that you’re fifteen, okay? I do. And I know you’re not a kid anymore,” Damn does Dean know just how much of a kid Sam isn’t anymore, “But I remember what it was like to be your age. It’s a confusing time, man.”  
  
“I’m not confused!” Sam yells, pushing himself up off the mattress. His legs are still unsteady and he pretty much collapses against the wall. Dean’s on his feet instantly, grabbing Sam around the waist.  
  
“Easy, Sammy,” he mutters, leading Sam back over to the mattress.  
  
Sam glares up at him, shoving his hands away as soon as he’s sitting. “Lemme alone, Dean,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I know that ‘s wrong, okay? I  _know_. But you… You don’t get to tell me what to feel.” Sam’s face crumbles and he shakes his head again. “I know ‘m a freak,” he adds, soft and miserable. “But I just don’t want you’ta hate me.”  
  
Dean drops to his knees and pulls Sam into his arms again, rocking him back and forth slightly. “Could never hate you, Sammy,” he whispers against the top of Sam’s head. “Promise.”  
  
Sam buries his face against the curve of Dean’s neck and he feels the wetness of tears against his skin, hears the pathetic little sniffle that Sam tries really hard to keep quiet, and he rubs his hand up and down Sam’s back, nonsensical whispers falling from his lips, just mindless muttering to try and calm his distraught little brother. Eventually, Sam pulls away, wiping his nose with the back of his hand again, shiny-wet eyes glancing up at Dean through the curtain of his bangs, still miserable and hazy from the whiskey. And because Sam is Sam and he loves to put Dean on the spot and ask the tough fucking questions, Sam whispers, “How come you aren’t freakin’ out about this?”  
  
Dean isn’t a coward. He’ll chase monsters that want to kill him, or eat him, and he’ll do so with a smile on his face and a swagger to his steps. But faced with answering  _that_ , with the possibility of laying it all on the line and exposing his greatest secret, his greatest  _weakness_ , he takes the chicken-shit way out. “’cause you’re fifteen and confused and drunk,” he reasons, his fingers twitching with the urge to wipe away the tear tracks off Sam’s face, the evidence of his brother’s pain. Sam hurt in any capacity has always been Dean Kryptonite.   
  
Sam rolls his eyes, his gaze dropping to Dean’s chest. “It… it’s not just today, Dean,” he says softly. “This… this has been there for  _months_. But after seein’ you today, with that girl at the diner, it just… I couldn’t take it anymore.”  
  
Sam’s always been mature for his age. Dean thinks it’s because of how they were raised, what they’ve seen and what they know. But the truth of it is, the kid’s just that fucking smart, damn-near brilliant, and way too observant for a fifteen-year-old kid. And Dean’s just smart enough to know why this one hit Sam harder than the others; the chick he picked up looking enough like him to make Sam’s scarily-huge brain start to work overtime.   
  
Dean sighs and licks his lips, shaking his head. “What,” he pauses, clears his too tight throat, “What’d’ya want me to say, Sammy?”  
  
Sam looks up at him, those too-old eyes looking down into his very soul like only Sam can, and tilts his head to the side. “I want you to be honest, Dean,” he says, tone still soft but firm, no trace of the liquor that’s still swirling through his veins. “If you can’t be honest with me, at least be with yourself. You know that this isn’t ‘cause ‘m drunk or confused or anything like that.” He pauses, heaving a sigh. “’s the same damn thing you feel. Whether it’s wrong or right, it is what it is.”  
  
Even though Dean loves being a big brother – relishes his role as Sam’s protector, his everything – there are times he thinks they were born in the wrong order. Sam is so much more practical and logical and smarter than he is.   
  
Dean could pretend not to know what Sam’s talking about, could shake his head and stomp out the door, find a bar and a girl. But the problem would be there tomorrow, the next day, forever. “’s not right, kiddo,” he says instead, hoping to appeal to Sam’s intelligence.  
  
Sam snorts a laugh, once again rolling his eyes. “ _That’s_  your argument?” he asks incredulously. “You and Dad fight monsters, Dean. We live on fake credit cards and scamming pool and darts. I don’t even have a real driver’s license but I have four fake IDs.” He pauses again, the puppy eyes out in full force and he sounds like the fifteen year old he actually is when he whispers, “You’re all I have, Dean. All I’ve ever had, all I’ve ever needed. With the way things are, how can we get close to someone else? How could I _be_  with someone else?”  
  
For as close as they are, they really couldn’t be much different. Sam never adapted to their nomadic lifestyle like Dean and Dad have, never bought into the one night stands and the option to be with someone while they’re there. Sam’s always wanted love and stability, relationships that will never be because they’re never anywhere longer than a month or two at best. And his logic is sound and Dean can see his point.   
  
Still doesn’t make it right though.  
  
Dean pushes himself up off the floor and slides one hand through Sam’s hair. “Sleep it off, kiddo,” he says softly. “Things’ll be better in the mornin’. I promise.”  
  
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam mutters before flopping over onto the mattress.  
  
Dean remembers a time when those words –  _I promise_  – meant the world to Sam, when Sam actually believed them. Dean still remembers when he believed them too.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Even though he knows he shouldn’t, Dean sits up for hours after Sam passes out, finishing off the rest of the fifth and a six pack of beer, all the while staring at the back of his little brother’s head, a million thoughts running through his mind.   
  
What if Sam really  _does_  feel the same? Is it something that Dean did? Did he somehow corrupt,  _ruin_ , his precious baby brother? Is Sam unconsciously picking up cues from him and thinking that they’re his own feelings? Or is it real? Does Sam really have the same, unhealthy, unnatural need and love for Dean like Dean does for Sam?  
  
Dean sighs and tries to stop thinking. It doesn’t matter either way. There’s no way in hell he’s going to do anything about it. Sam’s fifteen years old for fuck’s sake. And not to mention the fact that Dad would kill him slowly, find a way to bring him back, then kill him again, for even  _thinking_  of touching Sammy the way he has been, let alone actually acting on it.   
  
Sam shifts in his sleep, rolling over onto his belly, his hips grinding down into the mattress slightly. Dean clenches his jaw so hard it aches and curls his hands into fists. A breathy little whimper escapes from Sam followed by a soft moan that sounds a hell of a lot like, “Dean…”  
  
Licking his lips, Dean shifts forward, leaning closer to his brother’s bed, his gaze laser-focused on the slight roll of Sam’s hips. His brother shifts again, rolling onto his back, the thin sweats he’s wearing tented obscenely. Dean’s heart rate kicks up, the rhythm loud enough he’s almost afraid it’ll wake Sam up, and his own cock twitches painfully against his zipper. Sam’s hips arch off the mattress, fucking into thin air, another whimpery-moan falling from his slightly parted lips. When Sam’s hand curls around his stiff length, Dean’s own fingers itch to do the same.  
  
Sam moans again and Dean’s eyes snap to his face, sucking in a startled gasp when he sees sleepy, lust-dark hazel-green staring back at him. “Dean,” Sam breathes, shoving his hand beneath the waist of his sweats, his back arching slightly as he wraps his fingers around his cock.   
  
“Fuck,” Dean groans, an ache settling low in his stomach and his groin, his mouth bone-dry. Sam looks like a walking felony, every wet dream Dean’s ever had, and his resolve is wavering, his walls crumbling faster than he can rebuild them.  
  
Sam inhales shakily, whimpering softly again, his eyes going liquid. “Dean… Please… I need you,” he whispers.   
  
Kid knows what Dean’s weakness is, knows the quickest way to tear Dean – and his protective walls – down to the foundation.   
  
He pushes himself up off the other bed, barely stumbling as he crosses the three short feet between them, and settles down at his brother’s side. Sam looks up at him, love and lust and hero worship in his lust-blown, wide eyes, and Dean for once in his life, is selfish. He leans down, brushing a soft, sweet kiss to Sam’s lips, followed by another, then another; unable to resist that sweet Sammy taste now that it’s in his system. Sam turns halfway toward him, whining softly, and Dean shoves his hand under the waist of Sam’s sweats, carefully pulling his brother’s hand away from his leaking, blood-thick length. “Shh,” Dean whispers, pulling Sam closer, “I got’cha, baby boy. I got’cha.”   
  
Sam nuzzles under Dean’s jaw, his lips pressing just barely against Dean’s pounding pulse, the touch feather-light and innocent except for the fact that Dean currently has his hand shoved down Sam’s pants at the same time. Sam’s touches and kisses are tentative and shy, obviously inexperienced, and it should turn Dean off – he’s never really had a thing for virgins, too much time and patience involved that he doesn’t have – but it’s different with Sam.  _Everything_  is different with Sam.   
  
He knows that he could get Sammy off, just like this, his hand curled around his cock under his sweats. But he figures he’s already going to hell for the thoughts he’s been having about Sam so he might as well at least make the trip worth it and get to have this one time. He can always blame the booze for it later.  
  
Sam whimpers when he pulls away, long fingers grabbing at Dean’s t-shirt. “Shh, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “Not goin’ anywhere, baby. I promise.”  
  
Sam settles immediately, staring up at him, wide-eyed and trusting, and that dark, oily guilt oozes through Dean once again but he pushes it back, locks it up inside where he does everything else he ignores and doesn’t let himself think about. Sam’s hips lift easily when Dean tugs at his sweats and the briefs underneath, baring Sam to him in all his glory.   
  
His mouth waters as his gaze rakes over Sam from head to toe. He’s lean, long coltish limbs and whip-cord muscle covered with baby-soft, tan skin. His cock is flushed red and leaking a slippery trail of pre-come along his abs and the wispy hair beneath his belly button. There’s a pretty pink flush staining Sam’s chest all the way up to his neck, his cheeks, and Dean can tell it’s not just from arousal, especially when Sam squirms under his intense scrutiny, his hands fluttering at his sides like he wants to cover himself. “Dean,” Sam whines, all petulant little brother and Dean still refuses to admit it’s fucking adorable.  
  
Dean takes another second to look – knows he can never let himself have this again so he’s got to get his fill this time – before shucking his own clothes, mostly without direct consent from his brain.  _This_  wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. It was supposed to be about Sam – always about Sam – and Dean was supposed to be left hard and aching and wanting. But Sam’s eyes darken and a shy smile curls up his lips and the tension seems to flow out of his long frame and Dean would do  _anything_  to keep Sam looking that happy, that relaxed; to keep him looking at Dean like he’s his hero again.  
  
No matter how much he wants this – and  _God_  does he fucking want it – there are lines that Dean won’t cross,  _can’t_  cross. So instead of slipping between Sam’s slightly parted thighs like he wants to, open up his little brother and fuck him stupid, he stretches out on his side next to Sam again, sliding his hand across Sam’s warm – bare – stomach, right below his belly button. Sam’s still looking up at him, quietly studying him in that intense way Sam does, silently looking to Dean to take the lead like he’s done every day since the kid was born.   
  
Dean’s always felt that Sam was his. From the moment that he met his little brother, just hours after his birth, and Dad said “ _This is Sammy. He’s your little brother”_ , Dean took that literally. Sam is  _his_. And he may not be smart like Sammy but he’s smart e-fucking-nough to know that that thought is more than a little unhealthy, a little psychotic, but it doesn’t make it any less true.  _He_  raised Sam while Dad was busy with his crusade; taught him to walk and talk and read and how to shoot and how to handle a knife and how to defend himself.  _Sam_  came to him when he was scared or upset or hurt or angry. He held Sam when the nightmares got too bad and his brother would wake up screaming bloody murder – screaming for  _him_ , not Dad or Mom. It’s partly unsettling that one person has so much power over him, can break him down with merely a look or the tilt of his lips or the flash of his eyes. But mostly, it’s love. Pure, raw, all-consuming love. It’s them. It’s Sam. That’s all that’s ever mattered, all that  _will_  ever matter.  
  
He’s not going to lie and say he’s not freaking the fuck out, because he is. This is  _huge_. Even though it won’t happen again – he can’t _let_ it happen again – this is something that has the potential to change them forever. And Dean is under no illusion that it won’t. He’ll have this memory for the rest of his life, he’ll forever know how Sam tastes, how he feels, what he looks like when he comes; it’ll be branded on his soul and he doesn’t know how he’ll continue on as if nothing’s changed when _everything_ has.  
  
And even though Sam was terrified Dean would hate him, it could very well end up being Sam that hates Dean when he wakes up and realizes what they did – what _Dean_ did, what he took from Sam.  
  
He’s ready to call the whole thing off, he can’t risk this, it’s too fucking important, but then Sam smiles up at him, dimples barely carving into his flushed cheeks and whispers, “’s okay, Dean.”  
  
Dean has never been the one that needed reassurance. Those are _his_ words, that’s _his_ line. He’s the one that’s supposed to make sure Sam knows that everything’s okay, that Dean’s there and nothing can get him, that Dean will always protect him. It’s a scary as fuck feeling, one he’s never felt before – not even on the first few hunts Dad took him on. He’s not used to being the weak one.  
  
But damn if it doesn’t make everything just a little better.  
  
Sam lifts his head and presses a kiss under Dean’s jaw, his lips soft and dry, and Dean reaches up, palming Sam’s cheek, urging his face up silently. Sam’s eyes flutter closed a split-second before Dean dips down and brushes his lips across Sam’s, his stomach flip-flopping and his heart skipping a beat like the world’s worst fucking cliché. Sam’s lips part just slightly beneath his and Dean sweeps his tongue out, licking across the seam before slipping just barely inside the warm, wet cavern of Sam’s mouth.  
  
Sam moans, half pleasure, half startled, and opens his mouth wider, his tongue tentatively sliding against Dean’s. And it should be wrong – God, he’s kissing his brother for fuck’s sake – but nothing in his life has ever felt so Goddamn _right_.  
  
Dean surges forward, pressing Sam deeper into the mattress, hovering over him as he deepens the kiss, his tongue mapping out every part of Sam’s mouth he can get to. Sam whimpers against his lips, his hands fluttering along Dean’s ribs, like he’s not sure if he can touch, but _fuck_ , Dean wants him to touch.  
  
Reaching down with one hand, Dean grabs Sam’s wrist and places his brother’s hand on his hip, still moving his lips and tongue with Sam’s, kissing him breathless. And no one can say that Sam’s not a quick fucking learner, that’s for sure, because the second Dean lets go of his wrist, Sam takes the hint and slides his hands up over Dean’s sides, down his hips, the tops of his thighs, like he’s trying to touch everywhere at once. It’s simultaneously adorable as fuck and hot as sin.  
  
Sam scoots closer, his arms wrapping around Dean’s waist, his fingers trailing over the small of Dean’s back, feather-light and almost ticklish, and his cock brushes against Dean’s hip, smearing pre-come over the skin. Sam pulls away with a gasp, his eyes wide and dark when he looks up at Dean, his lips spit-shiny and kiss-bruised and Dean hasn’t ever seen anything more fucking breathtakingly beautiful in his entire life.  
  
“Dean,” Sam moans, soft and breathy and reverent, and Dean wants to hear Sam say his name like that for the rest of eternity. “Please… Fuck, please.”  
  
“Shh, ‘s okay, I got’cha, baby. ‘m right here. Gonna take care’a you, Sammy.” They both shudder and the _dirty-bad-wrong_ of it all seems to make it that much hotter. Dean’s said those words countless times to Sam growing up and it sure as shit shouldn’t make either of them tremble, shouldn’t somehow make this even _better_.  
  
“Dean… I don’t…” Sam whispers, that helpless little brother look mixing with the heat in his gaze. “I’ve never,” he confesses softly.  
  
And logically, Dean pretty much knew that. Still sends a filthy thrill down his spine _knowing_ that Sam’s never done any of this before. “’s okay, baby boy. I’ll show you.”  
  
Sam’s lips part on another breathy little moan, still looking up at Dean expectantly and a collage of bright snapshots from their childhood of that same damn look invade Dean’s brain. Inhaling deeply, he reaches down, his eyes still locked with dark hazel-green, and wraps his hand around Sam’s cock again.  
  
He knows that Sam’s jerked off before; can’t live basically in someone’s pocket twenty-four/seven and not know a few things, but he still goes slow, letting Sam get the feeling of another person’s hand on his cock, the difference from doing it yourself. He rubs his thumb through the pre-come leaking from the tiny slit, smears it over his cock-head and down his thick shaft, fingers rubbing the thick, prominent vein on the underside, thumb digging just barely into the bundle of nerves below the ridge. Sam’s eyes widen, his breathing turning a little erratic, his chest heaving slightly. “Oh God,” he mutters, one hand grabbing Dean’s forearm, fingers digging in bruise-tight..  
  
“Feel good, Sammy?” Dean asks needlessly.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam breathes, almost apologetically.  
  
Dean nods and presses a kiss to the side of Sam’s lips. He jerks slightly when he feels a soft, barely-there touch on his own aching erection, his eyes snapping up to Sam’s. “Please, Dean? I wanna touch you too. Can I?”  
  
“’course,” Dean chokes out.  
  
Sam’s long, slender fingers wrap around his cock, mimicking what Dean did to him, and Dean’s eyes damn-near roll up into the back of his head. It’s not that it’s the best hand-job he’s ever had – it’s the fact that it’s _Sam_ and how innocent yet filthy dirty those touches are.  
  
Dean trails his lips down Sam’s jaw, tongue sliding over baby-soft skin, down to his neck, nuzzling his nose there, inhaling that sweet Sammy scent and his cock twitches against Sam’s palm. He wants so much, wants to stretch Sam out across the too small bed and lick him from head to foot then settle between those long, lean legs and open him up nice and slow and fuck him until neither of them can move. But he just can’t do it. He’s already taking so much, taking the one thing he’s never supposed to have, and he can’t take the rest of Sam’s innocence like that.  
  
Dean’s not used to having to hold back sexually – it’s another reason why he usually avoids virgins – but this is Sam and in the end, that’s what matters, that’s what’s worth it.  
  
Sam makes a tiny, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and shoves his arm under Dean, wrapping it around his back. “What’s wrong?” Dean whispers, still pressing kisses to the tempting skin of Sam’s long neck.  
  
“Want you closer,” Sam half-whines, half-growls. “C’mon, Dean.”  
  
Dean frowns slightly, pulling back to look down at his brother. “What’d’ya want?”  
  
Sam licks his lips and bites down on the bottom one as he lets go of Dean’s cock and gently pulls Dean’s hand away from his own. Sam’s other arm wraps around his waist and he tugs, urging Dean on top of him. “Sam,” Dean warns.  
  
“No,” Sam breathes. “I… I know. Just… Please? C’mere?”  
  
Dean sighs and scoots closer, settling between Sam’s legs. Sam bends his knees, his thighs squeezing around Dean’s hips and Dean moans harshly when their erections slide together, the burst of almost too dry friction sending a fresh surge of arousal down his spine. “Oh fuck,” he rasps, dropping his hips, grinding down against Sam.  
  
Sam arches his back slightly, his hands gripping Dean’s biceps, his eyes huge and full of awe as he stares up at Dean. Fuck, he shouldn’t be doing this, this is so far passed the line he drew in the sand that he can’t even _see_ the line anymore. He has no right to know what Sam looks like when he’s turned on, to hear those breathy little whimpers and moans that sound a hell of a lot like ‘Dean’, to know what his brother’s cock feels like rubbing perfectly against his own. But fuck if he can stop now. It’s too much, too good, but still not close to being enough, will never be enough when it comes to Sam.  
  
Dean’s on the edge of release, has been since he walked into the room and caught a glimpse of his half-naked, half-drunk brother and this feels way better than a little dry humping should. But it doesn’t matter, nothing else matters except for Sam – same as it’s always been.  
  
Sam arches up against him again, his eyes fluttering closed, his sweat-slick forehead creased with arousal and exertion. “Dean,” he breathes, sounding half-panicked, half-apologetic.  
  
Dean doesn’t know how he knows, he just does, ever in-tune with Sam on every level. “’s okay, baby,” he whispers, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to Sam’s lips. “Let go for me. ‘s okay.”  
  
Sam comes with a cry, his fingernails digging into Dean’s biceps, his cock jerking and pulsing as his warm, sticky release erupts between them. Dean’s lost, mesmerized by the pleasure twisting his brother’s features, the way his eyelids flutter and his lips open and close over sounds that don’t quite make it out, the way his whole body trembles.  
  
Sam collapses back against the mattress, sleepy, orgasm-hazy hazel eyes blink slowly as Sam looks up at him again, a sweet, sated smile on his lips. “Dean,” Sam breathes, barely a sound, full of love and awe and Dean’s climax rips through him like a wrecking ball. He grunts, whole body freezing as he adds to the mess between them, his come mixing with Sam’s and that thought makes him shiver with the aftershocks, his cock twitching and pulsing out another few weeks spurts.  
  
Dean’s never been good with what happens _after_ sex. Mostly, he’s always picked up chicks from bars or diners and fucked them in backrooms or bathrooms or alleys and had a built-in excuse to get the hell out if Dodge. But – as with everything else – this is Sam and things are always different with Sam.  
  
Sam licks his lips and drops his eyes, embarrassment and nerves kicking back in now that the moment’s over and the come and sweat is cooling and the haze of orgasm is wearing off. “What… What now?” he whispers, for once actually sounding his age.  
  
Dean shrugs and brings one hand up, pushing the sweat-damp wisps of hair off Sam’s forehead. “I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly.  
  
He _should_ tell Sam that this was a one-time thing, that they can’t do this again – because they shouldn’t and they can’t – but when Sam looks up at him with those puppy eyes that have always been Dean’s weakness and whispers, “Please don’t go,” Dean knows he’s lost the game before he even started playing. He can’t tell Sam no, it’s just not a power he possesses. His love for Sam is his greatest strength yet his greatest weakness.  
  
But more than any of that, more than not wanting to hurt Sam or being unable to tell him no or resist him, he can’t walk away for his own selfish reasons. Now that he’s had a taste, he knows himself well enough to know that he won’t ever stop, not truly. Even if he walks away from it now, he’ll come back, the very first time Sam flashes him those eyes, he’ll come crawling back on his hands and knees because Sam makes him that weak. But, even this small taste, a nothing encounter in the grand scheme of all the sex Dean’s had in his life, has filled that dark hole inside his heart that he’s been trying to fill with cheap booze and cheaper women. That hole has been there as long as he can remember, he just never knew it was Sam-shaped.  
  
“Never,” Dean promises, flopping over onto the mattress at Sam’s side and pulling his sweaty, sated little brother into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Promise, Sammy. Never.”  
  
Sam looks up at him and smiles – soft and shy – and Dean sees the moment that Sam believes in those words again. It’s the greatest feeling in the fucking world.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The High Road by Three Days Grace


End file.
